


Help, I've Fallen and I Can't Get Out

by Vaderisbae



Category: Witches of Woodside, Witches of Woodside (D&D Twitch Stream)
Genre: And a Husband, Anxiety, Doug needs a xanax, Got dat Holy Water, La Brea Tar Pits and Museum, Major Spoilers, Panic Attacks, Post-Episode 10, Water BOIIIII, and a new mattress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26759212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaderisbae/pseuds/Vaderisbae
Summary: MAJOR SPOILERS EPISODE 9: Do NOT read this unless you've already seen ALL of episode 9: Red Dahlia. There's a brief mention of a major spoiler.Doug takes some much needed Me Time during his week off.
Kudos: 2





	Help, I've Fallen and I Can't Get Out

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to Andre for asking me to write this story! It was so fun to create and I loved getting to know our wonderful Water Boy better.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> TW: Panic attack, anxiety

_BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP_

Doug rolled over with a groan, hand fumbling blindly around the nightstand, searching for his phone and knocking his glasses off in the process. Cursing, he opened his eyes to the predawn darkness and grabbed the offending device, turning off the alarm, and flopped back onto the bed. _Of course I forgot to turn off my damn alarm._ He burrowed into his blankets in an attempt to lull himself back to sleep, but LA traffic wouldn’t allow him that luxury. He gave up after an especially loud taxi blared it’s horn for a full block, right outside his window. Rolling upright, his feet hit the thin carpet with a _thump_ and he sat on the edge of the bed for a few moments, trying to muster up the motivation to get out of bed. He ran a hand through his tangled black hair, fingers combing the wild bed head into something more manageable. _I really need to get my hair cut. Maybe that’ll be something I can get done this week._ He’d been meaning to do it for a while, but things at work had been insane and he just didn’t have the energy to schedule an appointment at his normal place after working all night. His spine cracked as he stretched his arms into the air and rolled his neck, phantom pain settling deep into his bones, the pain of a middle-aged man’s back aching after a night sleeping on a bad mattress.

He shuffled to the kitchen, not bothering to turn on the lights, regret instantly washing through him as he stubbed his pinky toe on the backpack he’d left in the middle of the floor. He flipped on the Bigfoot lamp his coworkers had given him as a joke, the feeble light illuminating the kitchen enough for him to start making his morning coffee. Coffee mug and bowl of cereal in hand, he plopped down at the rickety table by the window. As far as LA apartments went, this wasn’t the worst, but that wasn’t saying much. The hot water worked sporadically at best, the walls seemed as thin as tissue paper, and God knew how long the ratty carpet had been there for. Still, it had a window facing east and enough of a view that he could watch the sun rise. A moment of peace enveloped Doug as he sat quietly sipping his coffee and eating his breakfast while the dawn broke in subdued shades of pink and orange light. Moments like this were rare in his life, especially recently with the worrying radio disturbances and chaos of the Witches he was now assigned to babysit. Witches that were now down a member. He slumped over the table, elbows braced on the cheap wood, head in his hands. Justice was dead, really, actually, _truly_ dead. Apparently even magic can’t fix everything. He couldn’t help but feel responsible somehow. He was supposed to keep an eye on them, keep them out of trouble. He couldn’t even fucking manage that for more than a few weeks before someone ended up dead.

A _ping_ from his phone shook him from his spiraling thoughts. _Please don’t be from fucking Jimmy_. The prat had been dumping all of his duties onto Doug and he was sick of it. Checking the notification, it turned out to be an email from the National History Museums of Los Angeles County. He’d signed up for their newsletter soon after moving to LA, when everything still seemed bright and full of promise and opportunity. Apparently they had been closed for renovations and today they were finally reopening. He’d been wanting to go to the Tar Pits for forever, but just hadn’t gotten the chance. _Why not go today? It’s not as though I have anything more exciting to do at the moment._

A couple hours later, he stood on a city bus jammed between two people who really should’ve showered before using public transit. He shoved his glasses back up his nose and stumbled forward into the man in front of him as the bus suddenly slammed on its brakes.

“Watch it!” the man glared at Doug, who managed an apologetic smile and weak wave, before returning to stare at his phone. _Asshole_.

Finally, the bus squealed to a stop at the museum and Doug stepped off. The building was bigger than he thought it’d be and the park was still surprisingly green despite the current drought. He walked through the glass double doors of the entrance and snagged a La Brea Discovery Guide pamphlet from the info kiosk. Unfolding it as he walked, it showed a basic map of the museum and the pits. He paused at the first little exhibit, a series of photos showing the evolution of the excavation sites in the park, ranging from the early 1900s to today. Despite the free admission, the museum was wonderfully clear of people and Doug felt like he could actually breathe here, among the ancient bones and fossilized remnants of what Los Angeles used to be. He took his time exploring each exhibit, immersing himself in the past. The museum walls were covered with floor to ceiling murals of Ice Age flora and fauna and massive replicas of mammoths, sabertooth tigers, and dire wolves dominated the room.

One particular skeleton caught Doug’s attention. It stood tall in the middle of the floor on a dais of fake rocks and greenery. He leaned down to read the plaque: “ _Arctodus simus_ , more commonly known as the Giant Short-faced Bear, lived in North America during the Pleistocene epoch. They were known to be among the largest land mammalian carnivores in existence. This particular skeleton is the one of the largest specimens ever discovered. Paleontologists estimated this individual to have weighed roughly 4,000 lbs!” He glanced back up at the looming behemoth, senses tingling like a word just on the tip of a tongue, almost there but barely out of reach. He circled the dais, searching for what had piqued his interest. There. That was it. The arms were slightly too long and there were too many eye sockets. Mundies probably mistook the extra holes as wounds or weird deterioration, but Doug knew better. He’d spent too many long nights poring over the Institute creature archives not to recognize a magical beast when he saw one. If he was right, and he usually was with this sort of thing, this was actually a primordial grey render. The Institute agents assigned to the museum had obviously been busy mislabeling any supernatural discoveries from the tar pits. It made a certain sort of sense, it was far easier to purposefully misidentify and store those kind of specimens here than have them carted away to who knows where. The amount of effort it would take to move several tonnes of skeletons wasn't worth it. It's not as if any Mundies would believe anyone claiming the museum was covering up the existence of the supernatural; even though they'd be right. _Why couldn't I have been assigned here? This is exactly the sort of thing I'd be perfect for. I was made to work in a place like this._

It was an elegant solution, really, hiding the existence of monsters in plain sight. He’d forgotten what it was like to live oblivious to the supernatural realm. He couldn’t imagine what his life would've been like if Dr. Bane had never approached him. He would've dedicated years to understanding the unknown and still been so blind to the boundless reality of magic. Now, he knew the truth of the world, the magic and monsters, wonders and terrors of the paranormal. _So why am I still not happy?_ He'd had his eyes opened and yet his life still felt meaningless. His shoulders tensed, thoughts of returning to his tedious job as an errand boy for people stupider and less competent than himself filtering back into his head. Doug rubbed his temples, inhaling deeply through his nose and exhaling slowly through his mouth. In and out, until his shoulders had relaxed again. He was having fun, goddammit! This was his vacation, for Pete’s sake, and thoughts of work were not going to ruin it for him!

He deliberately wandered away from the misidentified skeleton towards the huge glass windows separating the museum from the research labs. A couple white coated and gloved individuals sat at tables covered with fossils and dirt-encrusted bones. He looked on, fascinated by the meticulousness and delicacy with which the paleontologists handled their discoveries. A woman sat a few feet from the glass, cotton swab in hand as she cleaned the rock in front of her. She carefully washed it with water from a bottle, removing most of the clay and silt from the surface. The rock had a picture perfect impression of a prehistoric leaf on one side. The leaf itself was nothing special, but Doug was awed by the fact that this otherwise ordinary rock held the imprint of something that was now nothing more than dust. Something so small and insignificant and utterly _ordinary_ had become something precious, a treasure to be treated with respect and care, an important key to mankind’s understanding of the long-dead past. Ordinary to precious. Insignificant to influential. Deep in his chest, part of him ached to be that silly little fossil; to be important, respected, _worth something_.

The woman’s brown eyes flicked up to him, he must have accidentally knocked against the glass while lost in thought. A smile spread across her face and she waved. Doug rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed to have distracted her, and waved back sheepishly. She stood and disappeared from view. He made sure no one else could see or hear him before thumping his forehead against the glass once, twice, three times.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he muttered to himself.

He turned to go to another exhibit, but stopped when he saw the same woman from the lab exit through a discrete side door and beckon him over. Curiosity overcame his embarrassment and he strode over. The woman stuck out her, now ungloved, hand and shook his vigorously.

“Hiya! This your first time at the tar pits? I just started working here myself and I’m still trying to get used to feeling like I’m in a fishbowl, ya know? You look like the type who appreciates the work we do here.” Doug looked down at his simple button-down, slacks, and black converse. He could see her point, he definitely fit in with nerdy sort. “Anyway, the museum’s pretty empty right now and I don’t have a ton of work that needs to get done, so I figured I’d come introduce myself. I’m Mia.” Her smile was blindingly bright and cheery. Her very aura radiated that bubbly warmth you get from basking in the spring sunshine. Doug couldn’t help but be infected with her good vibes.

“Nice to meet you, Mia. The name’s Doug, Doug Salazar.” He grinned back _(God, when was the last time I've actually smiled like this?)_ a bit helpless in the face of her enthusiasm. “I’m no paleontologist, but I am in grad school for a degree in American history, specializing in the history of the national parks, which I guess does kinda fit with your field.”

“Well, I’m basically the only person on shift at the moment and my supervisor’s pretty chill, so would you want a bit of an insider tour?” She asked, a conspiratorial look in her eyes.

“Is that allowed?” The words were out of his mouth before he could reel them back. “I mean, I would love a tour, I just don’t want you getting in trouble.”

“Usually we have guided tours through the labs scheduled in advance, but since it’s quiet right now, I’m sure my boss wouldn’t mind at all, especially not for a responsible grad student such as yourself.” She nudged him with an elbow and started walking back towards the door she’d come from.

Doug stood there for a moment, nonplussed, before hurrying after her. It would be illogical to not take her up on her once-in-a-lifetime offer, after all. She swiped a card and the door clicked open. They entered and Doug was surprised at how much noise there was back here. From the outside, the labs looked quiet and serene, but now that he was behind the glass, he could hear the rumble of dehumidifiers, the whine of drills, and various other sounds he couldn’t begin to figure out. Mia walked through the labs at a brisk pace that had Doug stretching his legs to keep up. She chattered about the various rooms, pointing out the most interesting current projects (including a massive ground sloth skeleton still half covered in tarry clay). He followed along, enraptured by the behind-the-scenes look at how the paleontologists worked. She showed him the sorting process for microfossils and complained about sore backs and strained eyes from hours spent bent over piles of rocks searching for tiny clues to the past. He commiserated with her about irritating coworkers and the drudgery of menial tasks. It felt natural to be at ease around this woman, she carried the conversation effortlessly and was just as intense about her research as Doug was about his national parks theories. It felt so good to have an intellectual conversation for once, to have someone listen to him and actually be interested in what he had to say. He couldn’t explain _everything_ (seeing as magic was still a taboo topic with mundies) about his theories, but she still seemed to really listen and engage thoughtfully. _This is exactly what I needed. Finally someone who actually uses their brain_.

The tour was over too soon, but the gift shop made up for some of the disappointment of saying goodbye to Mia. He found a “La Brea Tar Pits” cap that fit him perfectly and a replica of a sabertooth tiger skull that he couldn’t resist treating himself too. Outside, he sat on a bench for lunch, pulling out a PB&J sandwich from his fanny pack. The sun was out and it was the perfect temperature and there was a wonderful breeze coming off the ocean. It had been far too long since he’d had a day to himself like this. The Institute seemed to control every aspect of his life nowadays, consuming everything that wasn’t school and even then he’d been running between classes that weren’t his to begin with. He’d been so busy for so long that only now that he had a chance to breathe did he realize how close he was to burning out. This damn job was eating away at his soul and he had nothing to show for it other than a shitty moniker: Water Boy. What kind of nickname was that anyway? It made him sound like some damn kid. He stared at the half-eaten sandwich, no longer hungry, stomach uneasy with frustration. _Nope, I’m not thinking about this right now. This is my vacation. I am having **fun**._

He stood and started down the path to the first pit. Most of the outside exhibits were fairly anticlimactic, pretty much exactly what they sounded like: pits dug into the ground. The informational plaques at least were educational. He read about the excavation process and bits of interesting history from each site. They had snippets about what kinds of fossils the paleontologists found in the pit and possible explanations for how the animals became trapped in the first place. Doug tried not to relate. Tried to distance himself from the image of animals slowly sinking into suffocating blackness. He shook his head, tapping his fingers against his thigh as he walked and doing his best to immerse himself in the sights. The observation pit and pit 91 were the most interesting by far. Pit 91 was still in current excavation and Doug stood watching them work for a while. This dirty, sticky hole in the ground was so different from the immaculately clean and well-organized labs from the museum, but the process was just as interesting. He didn’t think he could live with being constantly covered in sticky asphalt and silt though, as cool as the work seemed. He wondered if these researchers ever felt as restless and ineffectual as he did at the Institute. The daily grind of digging and scraping just for a handful of old bug wings had to grind a person down eventually, didn’t it? Everyone had to feel as frayed as a worn nerve at some point in their jobs, right? It wasn’t just him? He couldn’t be the only one who felt like he was slowly suffocating. No, of course not. That would be silly to even consider. It’s all perfectly natural to feel trapped by your job sometimes. Yep, this is fine, he’s just fine, everything is **fine**.

His carefully constructed emotional house of cards collapsed at the Lake Pit. It was that damn mammoth statue that did it. A fake mammoth stood half submerged in the black, bubbling ooze, trunk outstretched to sky, frozen in mid-bellow of distress. And Doug was that damn mammoth, fooled into thinking the pool of asphalt was safe, only to realize too late that it was a lie, knowing every second that he was sinking deeper but incapable of freeing himself. He could smell the stink of methane and practically feel the oily muck pulling at his limbs. He collapsed onto a nearby bench, gaze still fixed on the statue, mind spiraling. _FUCK._ He’d been doing so well all day. It had been a good day, dammit! And now here he was, having a panic attack all because of a shitty fake mammoth. It wasn’t **fair**! He had done everything right! He’d excelled in university, graduating with honors. He was smart, wasn’t he? He was studious and meticulous and driven. He had everything he needed to succeed. So why wasn’t it **WORKING?!** Why was he trapped in this fucking Institute running errands like a dog and passed over at every turn?! Dr. Bane _himself_ had recruited him! And now it was like he didn’t even exist except when someone needed a damn water!

Blackness crowded the edges of his vision. His skin felt as though coated with sickly warm tar, he felt it dripping down his throat, filling his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. He gasped for air. _**IT WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE THIS!**_ _It wasn’t supposed to be like this. ~~It wasn’t supposed to be like this~~._ His fingernails dug into his thighs through the thin slacks, leaving crescent moon indents that would later turn to bruises. He bent over his knees, lungs pumping like bellows as his mind tried to convince him he was drowning in that lake of bubbling asphalt. He wanted out. He wanted out. He needed OUT! This couldn’t be what the rest of his life looked like! He couldn’t do it for much longer. He was suffocating under the endless stream of soul-crushing drudgery. He wanted more than this; more than demeaning nicknames and grunt work. And magic! Magic was wonderful and stimulating and fascinating and terrifying and dangerous and deadly and not for him. He could see it, he was surrounded by it every day, but he would never have it himself. He was condemned to being ordinary in a world of the extraordinary. Was it worse, knowing the truth but never being able to truly be part of it? To exist only on the fringes? To be indefinitely nothing more than an unwanted guest?

 _I need to get control of myself._ He recognized the signs of a panic attack. Recognizing it and stopping were two entirely different beasts, however. It took him another 10 minutes to calm himself enough to stop rocking and return his breathing to some semblance of normal. He took his time, mentally grasping each anxiety-inducing thought and shoving it back into its box, theoretically to be taken out and examined later, but he knew that was highly unlikely. Glancing around, he saw the park was completely empty and sighed in relief. At least he didn’t have to suffer the indignity of others witnessing his meltdown. He stood and shook off the lingering tremors in his limbs. He was done with panic today, thank you very much. He smoothed down the wrinkles in his polo and slacks, running his hands through his hair, patting it back down, and readjusted his glasses. _There, it’s like nothing ever happened. I’m fiiiiine, this is okay._ He walked purposefully towards the bus stop, trying to inject all the confidence he wished he had at his job into his stride.

Luck was on his side (for once) and he arrived at the stop moments before the bus. The ride home was blessedly uneventful. Doug was holding to his composure with white-knuckled stubbornness, but all it takes is the right pressure point and everything’s fucked again. _Nope, nope, stop that. It’s fine. I’m good. There’s no panic here._ He unraveled his earbuds and put on his favorite Steely Dan album, humming along with his eyes closed, anything to distract himself. The trip seemed shorter this time, whether it was because there was less traffic or because he actually got to sit down the whole ride, he didn’t really care. Santana serenaded his steps up to his apartment and sang to him as he went about making himself comfortable in sweatpants and heating up leftover takeout from the fridge.

 _Ping!_ Pulling out his phone from a pocket, he saw he had a message from Splice. _Oh god no, I can’t deal with this tonight. I thought I told her I was on vacation!_ Dread curling in his stomach, he opened the message to see it was a picture. _The fuck?_ It was a little blurry, but there stood Jimmy absolutely _drenched_ in engine grease and mud, looking for all the world like he was utterly and completely mortified.

 **4:20PM** **Eleanor “Splice” Lamb: Operation Fuck with Jimmy is a go.**

_Okay, maybe things aren’t not so bad after all._


End file.
